Life as a duchess...

Or something much more dangerous?

Part of The King’s Elite: constantly told her beauty and charm are all she has to offer, Lady Clarissa is intent on marrying a duke. And intriguing spy Sebastian Leatham will help her! Only, first she’ll assist him with his new assignment—playing the part of confident aristocrat Lord Millcroft. Sebastian awakens a burning desire within Clarissa that leaves her questioning whether becoming a duchess is what she truly longs for...

The King’s Elite miniseries

Book 1—The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

Look out for the next book, coming soon!

“The Wild Warriners steal hearts, but none more than youngest brother Jake, whose secrets and sensuality draw readers into Heath’s lively, stylish romance filled with adventure and unforeseen passion.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Warriner to Seduce Her

“The third of the Wild Warriners series shines with compassion and intense emotions as Heath tackles some thought provoking themes... A Warriner to Tempt Her is tender and loving, powerful and poignant.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Warriner to Tempt Her

When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep.

Also by Virginia Heath

Her Enemy at the Altar

The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide

Miss Bradshaw’s Bought Betrothal

His Mistletoe Wager

The Wild Warriners miniseries

A Warriner to Protect Her

A Warriner to Rescue Her

A Warriner to Tempt Her

A Warriner to Seduce Her

The King’s Elite miniseries

The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

And look out for the next book

coming soon.

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

Virginia Heath

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07403-2

THE MYSTERIOUS LORD MILLCROFT

© 2018 Susan Merritt

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Ruby Graham-Lovett.

Because special little girls deserve to

have the whole world know they are lovely.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Deepest, darkest, dankest Nottinghamshire —March 1820

The bullet hole still hurt like the devil, but to add to Seb’s current misery, this morning it had started itching, as well. So badly that he was sorely tempted to poke a buttonhook down the tightly bound, pristine bandages encasing his abdomen and vigorously flay the blasted irritation away. Instead he subtly scratched at the area with his fingers, only to have them slapped away by his diligent hostess who was listening to his chest with something which resembled a miniature wooden trumpet.

‘You have to leave the wound alone, Seb. The stitches have only just come out and the area is still delicate.’

As was he. With a huff he flung his head back on the pillow and, to his shame, pouted like a petulant child. ‘I’m going mad, Bella. Slowly around the twist at the sight of these four walls.’ He’d been in bed almost three weeks. Granted he hadn’t remembered the first ten days of that, he’d been too busy fighting for his life, but he had been improving steadily for the last ten and was desperate to get back to work. He had smugglers to catch and one in particular. The Boss. The elusive nameless, faceless mastermind behind a highly organised, extremely dangerous smuggling ring linked to Napoleon himself, which not only threatened the English economy, but had also been indirectly responsible for killing two of Seb’s best men as well as aerating his chest.

‘How much longer is your husband going to keep me chained to this bed?’ Not that he wasn’t grateful. Doctor Joe Warriner had saved his life. The musket ball had gone deep and the blood loss had been so significant that most physicians would have sent for a parson to administer the last rites. But Joe wasn’t most physicians and had battled to dig the thing out, and had worked tirelessly to snatch Seb from the snapping jaws of death in the week afterwards. Who wouldn’t be grateful? But one could still be indebted for ever and frustrated at being gaoled by the same man simultaneously. Doctor Joe was both a genius and a tyrant...and now Seb was thinking petulantly, as well. Being indoors for long periods of time clearly brought out the worst in him.

‘Actually, after your astounding show of ill-tempered belligerence yesterday, he has agreed you can come downstairs today. But only to sit in a chair. And only for a few hours. Once you’ve taken your medicine, I shall send someone in to help you get cleaned up while I sort out something appropriate for you to wear. I’m sure Joe must have something that will fit you.’

Whilst sitting in a chair didn’t sound the least bit exciting, it was better than lying in a bed like an invalid and, once he was downstairs, they really would have to chain him up to stop him moving around. For a man used to being out in the elements, being cooped up was anathema. Mind you, Seb couldn’t complain about the luxury. A soft mattress, warm blankets, clean sheets and three excellent meals a day were a rarity in his line of work. Ten days’ worth was unheard of. He might be in purgatory, but it was a sweet-smelling, comfortable cocoon-like ordeal and it could be much worse. He could be worm food.

A male servant came in as soon as Bella left, clutching a steaming bowl of water, soap, towels and razor, clearly intent on bathing him like a baby. Seb sent him packing and groomed himself as best as he could, something which proved to be more challenging than he had first thought. Being left-handed, and because the bullet which lodged itself in his ribcage had sailed inches shy of his heart, every movement of his arm sent pain shooting through his body. The repetitive action required to scrape the cutthroat over his unruly new beard was impossible. He briefly attempted it with his right hand and almost sliced his nose off, so Seb settled for clipping it as best as he could with scissors while trying to ignore the worrying image of his pale, gaunt face in the mirror and the dark-ringed sunken eyes that stared back.

He looked ill.

Seeing it for himself certainly gave him pause for thought for a moment, until his legendary stubbornness kicked in and he tossed the mirror on the bed. What difference did it make if he was pale and unkempt? In his job, he had to blend in to the shadows and mix with the flotsam and jetsam. His new complexion only served to camouflage him better, made him appear more fearsome, and the thick beard very nearly covered up the ugly jagged scar than ran down his right cheek. The one Seb hated far more than he loathed these four walls. His permanent reminder of his allotted place in the world. Perhaps he’d keep the beard? Even though that, too, itched.

Gingerly he tugged the clean linen shirt over his head and was relieved to see it just about fitted. He might well have lost weight, but the burly muscles he had inherited from his mother’s family were still there. Farming stock and not the gentlemanly type. The sweat of his people had fertilised the land they had worked. Like his grandfather and his grandfather before him, Seb was still fundamentally as strong as an ox underneath the temporary sickly pallor. He had always been more farm labourer than gentleman and he’d be fighting fit again in no time. Not much ever laid down a Leatham, aside from extreme old age, and neither would one stray bullet. That thought cheered him as he flung his equally sturdy legs over the mattress and planted his big farmer’s feet firmly on the floor.

When he tried to stand to dress himself, however, his legs almost gave way and he had to grab the bedpost quickly as his head spun. Then, for the first time in his adult life, Seb had to suffer the indignity of someone else supporting him as he dressed, and then made his way laboriously down the stairs, collapsing in the nearest chair like a wobbly newborn foal. Exhausted. Humbled. And frankly, a little bit scared at the extent of his deterioration.

There was no two ways about it, his recovery was going to take much longer than a week. Suddenly the safe cocoon of his bed didn’t seem half as bad as it had half an hour ago, especially as the chair was now his new nemesis and one he could barely hold himself upright in. Perhaps he wouldn’t attempt to venture outside today. Being scraped up from the ground would be the ultimate humiliation and one his stubborn pride would never allow. Unconsciously he rubbed the scar beneath his new beard. Seb loathed being beholden to others. He looked after himself and those dear to him. Always had. Always would. Another trait from his proud farming heritage and the harsh realities of life.

A maid came in with a tea tray. ‘Good morning, Mr Leatham. How do you take your tea?’

‘Milk. No sugar.’ He looked down at his hands and cringed at how rude he sounded. ‘Thank you.’ He also loathed his crass ineptitude around women, especially the young and pretty ones. The ability to smile in their presence and be charming was not one he possessed. Seb wished he did, and it was not for want of trying, but each time he steeled himself to be more erudite than the average granite boulder, the awkward shyness tied his tongue in knots and the ability to string more than two words together evaporated. At best he barked at them so fiercely he scared them, and at worst he was simply mute.

Even the safe, married women had a similar effect. It had taken the best part of the last ten days to be able to converse with Bella properly and only because she had made a concerted effort to put him at his ease. He probably had all those gruff farmers in his lineage to thank for that unfortunate trait as well, because his father had certainly never suffered from the affliction. He could charm the birds from the trees to such an extent he sincerely doubted the man’s sheets had ever been cold. Unlike Seb’s, which rarely met any skin which wasn’t his. Yet another depressing thought in a day seemingly filled with them.

He heard the brittle rattle of china and risked looking at the maid out of the corner of his eye. He saw her sunny open smile had vanished because he’d been curt and monosyllabic yet again and all the poor girl had done to deserve it was bring him some tea. The gruff tone was a defence mechanism which hid his shyness from the world, although the maid wouldn’t know that. Only his closest friends knew of his affliction. Seb attempted a smile as she placed it on the side table next to him and muttered another thank you into his lap, then groaned as soon as she left the room. If being fearsome was wholly inappropriate, usually he would be the first person to leave a potentially awkward situation, which was probably why hiding in the shadows came so naturally to him. Normally, when not sporting a debilitating bullet hole, he would have darted out of the room as soon as he heard the click of female heels on the floorboards and returned when the coast was clear—but of course, he could barely stand, let alone dart.

Bella came in next, smiling in that concerned way she and her husband did as a matter of course. ‘I’ve brought you some books. They’re a bit of a mixture, as I didn’t know what you’d like to read, but I thought they might help pass the time.’ She placed them on the side table next to the tea and then poured herself a cup. ‘If it’s any consolation, I know what it feels like to be bored. Joe is insisting that I stay at home and rest for three hours every day despite the fact I feel as right as rain.’ She daintily sat on the sofa opposite him, her hand automatically resting on the increasing baby bump beneath her skirts. ‘At least I now have you to keep me company.’

‘Lucky you. I’m famous for my scintillating conversation.’

She grinned and took a sip of her tea. ‘I’ve arranged for luncheon to be brought in here. I thought we’d both be more comfortable than sat rigid at the dining table. Would you mind if we ate it a little early? Only I find myself constantly starving nowadays.’

‘I could eat.’ Now that she mentioned it, Seb was hungry. Another good sign, he supposed. Evidence of the tiny steps of improvement he was making.

‘Oh, I’m so relieved to hear that.’ Bella grabbed the bell and rang it. ‘I will tell them to bring it immediately and use you as the excuse.’

Five minutes later and the same maid who had brought him tea came in with another tray. This one contained some delicate sandwiches and cakes and, to his abject horror, the dreaded invalid cup he had come to despise. He eyed it with distaste. ‘Please tell me that’s not more of your insipid broth!’

‘It most certainly is and if you refuse to drink it again I shall tell Joe that I don’t think you are quite ready to be out of bed. That broth is a carefully balanced recipe designed to restore your strength and vitality. You do want to get better, don’t you?’

‘Can you at least stop serving it to me through a spout like an infant? I am sat upright in a chair. I could take it just as easily in a teacup as in that monstrosity.’

‘A fair point and one I shall certainly take on board at dinnertime—if you drink that one without...’ The rattling of carriage wheels on the gravel outside made her pause and frown. ‘I’m not expecting anyone... I wonder who that can be?’ She placed her forgotten tea on the table and disappeared to investigate, leaving Seb alone with his dented masculinity, the foul restorative broth and the invalid’s sipping cup. When she failed to materialise after five minutes, he snatched it up and searched for something close by to pour it into. He soon realised that was a forlorn hope and began to pour the tasteless, lukewarm contents quickly down his throat to get it over with.

‘I shall order more tea.’ At the sudden sound of Bella’s voice so close he nearly choked and spilled the last drops over his chin, just in time for the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to appear at her elbow. Bella grimaced apologetically as he swiped the mess away with the back of one hand while trying to hide the awful cup with the other. ‘We have a surprise visitor, Seb. My sister has abandoned the excitement of society to come to stay for a few days... Mr Sebastian Leatham—Lady Clarissa Beaumont.’

The vision, because there was no other word to describe the angelic perfection which had just walked in the room, momentarily appeared as surprised to see him as he was her. Her step faltered and he swore he saw a note of panic in her widened blue eyes before she caught herself. In fascination he watched her transform from startled and almost afraid to supremely confident. She tilted her golden head in acknowledgement, those beautiful eyes now amused at either his clumsiness or the freshly glowing red tips of his ears.

‘Mr Leatham.’

The voice matched the face. Lovely. Lingering over the vowels just enough to sound subtly seductive, although Seb hadn’t needed to hear it to be totally seduced—and mortified to be so. He was a clumsy oaf around most women, but in front of this goddess of perfection he stood no chance of behaving nonchalantly.

‘M’lady.’

To compound his embarrassment, his errant tongue managed to completely slur the words, making him sound every inch the subservient farm labourer from rural Norfolk he truly was. Good manners dictated he stand, because that is what a real gentleman did in the presence of a real lady, and so Seb tried, winced and promptly collapsed back into the chair, winded.

‘No, please. Don’t get up on my account, you poor thing.’

Thing.

That stung.

‘I didn’t realise you had company, Bella.’ She turned to her sister and he saw it again. That crack in her composure. ‘Perhaps I picked a bad time to turn up unannounced?’

Bella threaded her arm through her sister’s and grinned. ‘Not at all. There’s room enough for both of you. Don’t you remember? I wrote to you about Seb.’

‘Yes... Yes, you did. How silly of me to have forgotten.’ The vision turned her perfect head and scrutinised him as if properly noticing him for the first time. No doubt she saw the same things he had in the mirror. The gaunt face. The ratty beard. The lack of both a coat and waistcoat because he didn’t have the strength to shrug them on. The distinct lack of good breeding which he always tried to deny to the world. The ugly, jagged scar he wore like a badge. ‘You must be the brave hero who threw himself in front of a scoundrel’s bullet to save the schoolmistress?’

To nod seemed arrogant, but he allowed his unsightly head to bob once rather than attempt to speak again, not that he had considered his actions particularly brave at the time. He was simply doing his job. Breaking cover and charging towards the gun had given his friend a chance at killing the aforementioned scoundrel and saving the girl. The selfless act had been instinctual. Necessary. To complete their mission and because his friend and an innocent woman had needed him. Only now, with the benefit of hindsight and in view of the fact he had very nearly died as a result, was he privately prepared to acknowledge it had been a ridiculously courageous thing to do. Stupid, too. After weeks to ponder his rash response Seb realised he could have simply shifted his camouflaged position in the bushes and shot the scoundrel himself instead. But then sometimes he did tend to over-complicate things when the simplest solution was staring him right in the face.

‘Bella said you are lucky to be alive, Mr Leatham.’

‘So they tell me.’ Now he sounded typically clipped and unfriendly, his eyebrows already aching with the force of his scowl while the weight of her expectant stare was making his toes curl inside his boots. At a loss as to how to salvage the situation, he stared down at his hands and willed the floor to open up and swallow him.

‘I see you are reticent to talk about it.’

‘Seb is a man of few words.’ He could hear the affectionate smile in Bella’s voice and risked glancing up, only to find his eyes immediately lock once again with Lady Clarissa’s. She must have seen the heat and longing hidden in their depths because the corners of her plump, pink mouth curved knowingly. He supposed a woman like her was used to being admired, but it still annoyed him to be so transparent, so he resolutely stared back at his coarse, callused hands with the most unfriendly expression he could muster. Why had he gazed winsomely at her? Society ladies weren’t for him any more than society was. What a fawning idiot.

‘Or Mr Leatham is merely being mysterious to pique my interest?’

Pique her interest! Now she was making fun of him. Seb lifted his eyes defiantly as he glared, his stubborn pride refusing to let him appear less than he wanted the world to see, or revealing his pitiful shyness. ‘There’s nothing much to tell, my lady. It all happened in a moment.’

‘A significant moment, though.’

‘Which rendered me blessedly unconscious.’ An outright lie as he had lain on the ground in agony in a pool of his own blood far too aware of his life ebbing away. ‘I have no memories of the event. Nothing to entertain you with.’ Splendid. He was barking again. Conscious of the vision’s eyes still on him, Seb sat silently and hoped she’d quickly lose interest, as ladies were often prone to do when confronted with his legendary charm and lack of real gentlemanly credentials.

A waft of something truly wonderful and feminine tickled his nose as she moved to sit on the sofa with her sister. Whatever it was, it altered the air in the room until everything was enlivened by her fragrance, heightening his remaining senses while he avoided directly looking at either of them in case he appeared smitten as well as struck dumb. He heard rather than saw the rattle of teacups. Mumbled thanks as his forgotten one was removed and replaced with a fresh one, then only risked picking it up when the two ladies were happily chatting about the state of the roads between Nottinghamshire and London. When the topic changed to society gossip, Seb allowed himself to relax while simultaneously trying to blend into the wallpaper. As there was nothing he could add to the conversation and nobody was likely to ask him anything, he took his first sip and covertly studied the vision as she talked.

Lady Clarissa was every inch a beautiful and sophisticated titled lady. Impeccably attired in what he assumed were the latest fashions, there wasn’t a single hair out of place on her pretty head despite the fact she had travelled two hundred miles in a carriage. The symmetrical and casually loose ringlets which framed her cheeks were too bouncy, the intoxicating perfume too vibrant. If he were a betting man, Seb would lay good money on the fact she had stopped at an inn close by so that she could repair any damage and arrive looking as fresh as a daisy, rather than as wilted as a wet lettuce leaf like all the mere mortals would after days on the road. Surely nobody was that perfect? Judging by the creaseless silk of her becoming travelling dress, she had changed, too. No fabric looked that good after a jaunt up the Great North Road, especially when it moulded to her upper body like a second skin.

And it wasn’t just the external façade which both bothered and intrigued him. Her voice was like warm honey, slow yet animated at the same time. Perfect for story-telling and he found his own ears hanging on her every word while his eyes kept being pulled by some invisible force to watch her. Whilst that was no hardship, the more he observed, the more he saw.

She had that practised way of moving he had noticed in others of her ilk, only magnified, which showed off her face and figure to perfection, yet the effortless grace didn’t quite ring true either. A tad too choreographed to be natural. Even the position of her fingers as she held her teacup smacked of previous rehearsal, as if she had spent hours sat in front of a mirror, trying to discern the very best position to show off the delicate bones and the slimness of her wrist beneath the gossamer lace at her cuffs. Too perfect once again. Everything about her was too perfect, from her ridiculously long and seductive lashes to the oh-so-casual flick of that precisely positioned wrist.

Seb spent most of his life pretending to be someone else, usually a better man than he was, so he recognised an act when he saw one. Lady Clarissa Beaumont was a good actress. So good that her own sister didn’t appear to notice the brittleness of some of her smiles or the flashes of sadness in her lovely cornflower eyes between blinks. The unconscious jerkiness of some of those movements that suggested she was nervous or uncomfortable.

While there was no doubting the instant and wholly male reaction he had experienced upon first meeting her, because she truly was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen, it was that hidden mystery which now piqued his interest. Those little clues to the real woman she might be beneath the carefully constructed mask she wore so well.

She must have sensed him watching her, because her eyes suddenly locked again with his. ‘Don’t think for a minute I have forgotten you, Mr Leatham.’ Hot tea sloshed out of his cup and on to his leg at his being so hideously caught out. Only sheer pride held back the yelp of pain as he forced himself to return her gaze. For several long moments she searched his almost snarling face, then she picked up her teacup again and slanted him a coquettish glance over the rim.

‘There is nothing I adore as much as a mysterious man. Is there a Mrs Leatham I should know about?’

The sudden and unexpected flirting tied his damn tongue into gauche knots again, although while he faltered he also knew with certainty she had done it on purpose. Another layer of artful trickery to hide the real her.

Chapter Two

Clarissa maintained the forced smile until the bedchamber door closed with a soft click, then her expression crumpled as the ever-threatening tears finally leaked their way out. Pretending everything was normal was proving exhausting, especially in front of a handsome stranger whose intelligent, hostile eyes seemed to bore into her very soul to the panicked and terrified girl inside.

Even if Mr Leatham hadn’t been here, Clarissa acknowledged she wouldn’t have shared her shame with her sister, because there was so much about herself she was ashamed of that hiding it was second nature. But at least if it were just them she would take solace in her younger sibling’s calm and straightforward manner. Bella had always been the sensible one. Clarissa had fled here needing that honesty and forthrightness, needing to know that there were no subtle nuances or hidden meanings in conversations, hoping that a few days of not having to pretend to be perfect would fortify her enough to endure the rest of the awful Season—no matter what was thrown at her.

However, in just a few short minutes, her hasty flight from Mayfair to the north was not looking like the most prudent course of action. She had quite forgotten Bella was nursing a hero back to health. Clarissa still missed her sister dreadfully, and usually took great interest in the chatty, weekly letters Bella sent her. The letters she pretended she was far too busy to read. The same letters Clarissa laboriously read alone in her bedchamber, smiled over yet never replied to. Their mother’s letters kept Bella up to speed with all Clarissa’s news, assuming her eldest daughter was too busy or flighty to bother with such things, and out of pride she never corrected that false assumption because she had worked very hard to achieve it.

Whilst it wasn’t the same as having Bella in London, those triangulated missives still felt like a conversation of sorts and reinforced their sisterly bond. But events in Clarissa’s own life had rocked her to her core and quite overshadowed everything else, leaving her floundering and feeling so dreadfully alone and bereft. It had been instinctual to need Bella even though she knew she would never pluck up the courage to confide in her or anyone. There were too many lies now. A decade-and-a-half’s worth. But with Bella she could at least lick her wounds in private and decide on the best move to make upon her return to fix the horrendous mess Clarissa had not seen coming.

None of those things would be easy to do with a stranger in their midst. Not only would Mr Leatham be here for the duration of her brief visit and beyond, Clarissa had not considered how painful it would be to see her brilliant baby sister blissfully happy, head over heels in love with a worthy man who obviously adored her. It rubbed even more salt into an already open wound and made her feel unbelievably stupid once again. Not that she really needed the extra reminders. She’d lived with them all her life.

She felt ashamed at envying Bella’s happiness. Bella was not only brilliant and clever, she was kind, ridiculously brave and the most selfless individual Clarissa had ever known. Bella had worked hard to overcome her insecurities, while Clarissa worked hard to hide all hers. Her only ambition had always been to secure a good marriage to a decent man, one who loved her despite her flaws, become a mother and do wifely things. Frankly, with her limited abilities at anything else, that had seemed ambition enough. Her husband would shield her failings from the world and her life would have some purpose.

But then her face and figure had been lauded as special and her head had been turned by the compliments. If she couldn’t be brilliant, slightly clever or even of average intelligence, being beautiful and sought after had become far more important than it should. Why marry a decent man when she could marry a real catch? A duke, even? It would be the single most triumphant achievement of her life and something few young ladies could ever aspire to. And as the wife of a duke she could employ people to make up for all her failings. Duchesses were too busy to school their own children or reply to their own correspondence. As a duchess, no one—not even her illustrious husband—would ever need to know how truly stupid she was. The allure of perpetuating that lie had sucked her in and Clarissa had quite lost sight of her goals.

What a foolish dream! And yet another example of her lack of wits. She should have settled that first Season when the beaus had been plentiful. Now she was trapped in a nightmare she didn’t dare leave, while sensible Bella was living Clarissa’s only dream. She was loved for who she was—flaws and all.

As much as she loved her sister, she hated walking in her shadow. Bella had always been better than Clarissa in everything. More intelligent. More practical. More academic. More altruistic. She could play the piano, speak passable French in conversation and set a broken bone without any real effort at all. In the two years she had been married to her handsome physician, Bella was practically a fully trained physician herself, albeit one who would never hold the lofty title of doctor on account of her sex, and now she was to become a mother, as well. Unwittingly, she had achieved everything Clarissa had always hoped for and all without trying. While Clarissa had tried everything to win her a man and was still left sitting on the shelf. Unless she thought of a way out of her current, perilous situation quickly, that shelf was beginning to look as if it would become her permanent residence.

* * *

Of course, it hadn’t helped that her sister had ribbed her over luncheon in front of Mr Leatham.

‘Back in town Clarissa is highly sought after. She’s considered an Incomparable. A diamond of the first water.’ Bella had grinned mischievously and Clarissa had forced herself to shake her head and laugh.

‘A preposterous title.’ One she had simultaneously grown to loathe while also fearing the day when she was not being referred to as such. All the signs pointed to that day coming very soon. ‘A silly nonsense thought up by the scandal sheets.’ Who now had labelled other girls as beyond compare. Younger girls. Far more intelligent girls. Girls who hadn’t seen too many Seasons go by and were the new fresh faces competing for the very best gentlemen and one in particular. The Duke of Westbridge. The wealthiest and most eligible bachelor in London, who up until recently solely had eyes for Clarissa. Until his eyes had wandered to pastures new.

‘A gem?’

Mr Leatham said this with a smile, the only one he had bestowed upon her, and for once it was a genuine smile, she could tell. His dark eyes had crinkled in the corners before he had scowled and quickly looked away. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as brash and ferocious as he seemed?

He was not immune to her charms. Clarissa could see through his short, sharp answers and borderline rudeness because he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She was still pretty. Her only saving grace was intact. A reassuring piece of knowledge when her pride and her confidence were so severely damaged, although his charming reaction to her customary flirting came nowhere near close enough to repairing that damage. But then Mr Leatham was no duke and as such lacked the cold self-assurance such men wielded with cruel precision.

He was handsome though, in a rough and ready sort of way. The way he filled out the soft linen shirt he wore open at the neck was quite magnificent.

Broad shoulders, muscular arms, big hands which positively engulfed the delicate china teacup he was trying to hide behind. Nothing at all like the usual men of her acquaintance who padded their coats extensively to achieve half the effect. Nor did he try to impress her with bravado, as men usually did. He was a genuine hero. A man who had selflessly been prepared to sacrifice his own life to save another and was lucky to be alive. Every gentleman she knew would have crowed about his bravery from the highest rooftops, revelling in the deserved admiration he received from his peers. Not so Mr Leatham. As her sister had promised, he was a man of few words and those he did utter were curt. That curtness didn’t put her off him in the slightest because behind his brief, gruff answers and standoffishness, he had nice eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes that told her he listened carefully to everything she said rather than treat her as a purely decorative companion whose only purpose was to listen to what he said. Eyes that frequently, shyly struggled to hold her gaze as he spoke.

How adorable was that?

Once or twice, between glares, Clarissa was convinced he even blushed—which was an unusually endearing trait in a man in his prime and one which made her predisposed to like Mr Leatham a great deal. Even though she knew next to nothing about him and had promised herself not to be so trusting ever again with so little background knowledge of a man’s true character.

‘I can’t say I know any Leathams. Who are your people?’ A ploy to change the subject, although she was curious about the enigmatic man who said so little but she suspected saw so much.

‘They were farmers. In Norfolk.’

‘Were?’

‘I’m the last of the line.’

He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, as if being all alone in the world didn’t matter, but immediately her heart went out to him. Clarissa hated being alone at the best of times because it allowed the doubts to creep in. She preferred to be in company because when socialising her mind was occupied and socialising was one of the few things she was good at. To have no one who cared about you—loved you—to be all alone with your thoughts didn’t bear thinking about. How awful must it be to have nobody to go to in times of need? Nowhere safe and comforting to escape to when you felt inadequate, which she did daily. Or when the bottom had fallen out of your world and your poor heart was bleeding.

‘Is the Season very dull this year?’ Bella stepped in to save him and inadvertently hit another sore spot with her question. They both knew that the most exciting entertainments happened in the spring when everyone was in town because the weather was at its best.

‘It is the same as it always is.’ Except it wasn’t. ‘I thought I would squeeze in a quick visit to my favourite sister before the garden parties begin in earnest.’ She flicked her eyes towards the reticent man in the chair opposite and hoped she appeared and sounded nonchalant. ‘It all becomes very tiring Mr Leatham.’

‘I wouldn’t know, my lady.’ Although something in his dark, intelligent eyes told her he knew much more than he let on. Saw far more than he said, which was unnerving and this time it was Clarissa who looked away first because she was frightened he would see the truth. Beneath the pretty face there was nothing else. An empty void of disappointing, below-average woman.

‘Clarissa is being courted by a duke.’

‘Is she now.’

‘Yes indeed.’ Bella had turned to her conspiratorially. ‘Do we anticipate the announcement of your engagement imminently?’

The canny Mr Leatham had seen her lip tremble, his dark eyes had flicked to it, then back to look into hers, but regardless the practised lie still tripped off her tongue.

‘I haven’t said yes yet.’

Because the Duke still hadn’t asked. Not once in the eighteen months of their much-gossiped-about acquaintance had the word marriage come up in conversation, let alone talk of affection, and Clarissa had become quite overt in her hints. He waltzed with her at every party. Sent her a bouquet of scarlet hot-house roses every Wednesday, drove her up and down Rotten Row each Saturday when the rest of Mayfair was there, all of which had served to scare off every other suitor she’d had, but the wretch hadn’t so much as hinted at making their liaison official or once tried to steal a kiss. The conflicting behaviours had kept her on tense tenterhooks from the outset, something the Duke doubtless knew, but didn’t seem to care about.

At first, Clarissa had assumed those things would come with time, that he was just being careful as a man befitting his high station should be careful when choosing a wife, but now she knew better. The Duke of Westbridge, although enamoured, wasn’t nearly enamoured enough. She had accidentally overheard his own mother say as much in the retiring room at the Renshaws’ ball only last week. A cruel coincidence seeing as that was the second ball at which he had failed to waltz with her once despite the fact she had saved both for him, and the third in which he had waltzed with Lady Olivia Spencer. The latest and brightest Incomparable—now Clarissa’s significantly younger rival. If the gossip columns were to be believed—and she had no reason to doubt them—Lady Olivia had also received a bouquet of scarlet roses last Wednesday.

Thankfully, they hadn’t learned that Clarissa’s roses had suddenly been relegated to pink else she’d be a laughing stock as well as yesterday’s news. She’d stamped on the damning stems before packing her bags and dragging her surprised maid halfway up the country, praying that absence really did make the heart grow fonder. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, it was now her only remaining hope of securing a suitable husband and making something of the poor arsenal of attributes the good Lord had graced her with.

‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before we all have to refer to you as your Grace.’

Bella’s teasing tone was almost her undoing, but she managed to force a smile in response before hiding behind her own teacup, thoroughly disgusted at her own youthful foolishness at allowing herself to be seduced by the idea of being better than she was. Then she caught Mr Leatham staring at her quizzically. Almost as if he knew that the whole Incomparable Lady Clarissa was indeed one big, fat sham and the real Clarissa wasn’t much of a catch for anyone. A sad truth which couldn’t be denied.

After that, the rest of the lunch was pure torture. Mr Leatham listened to Bella regale tale after tale about Clarissa’s legions of suitors, expecting her to embellish certain stories in her customary witty manner. It was exhausting and humbling to remember exactly how far she had fallen since her empty head had been turned. When Bella had insisted her patient return to bed because he looked worn out, Clarissa, too, pleaded tiredness from her travels. She needed time to lick her wounds in private and to repair her mask before dinner, which had been more of the same—only worse. Much worse.

* * *

Throughout the evening she had not only had to contend with Mr Leatham’s intelligent, silent assessment as she pretended to be engrossed in a book to avoid conversation, but the sight of her baby sister and her husband together. Deliriously happy, perfectly content. Hopelessly in love. A stark reminder that Clarissa had failed to manage that in much the same way as she failed at everything else Bella excelled at. Yet hardly a surprise really. Bella had substance and Clarissa had none. Dreaming of finding a man who loved her was as futile as believing she could pull the wool over the eyes of the ton indefinitely.

Fleeing here had been a huge mistake. Her unexpected visit would be fleeting. Another day at most. Any more would likely destroy what was left of her self-esteem and render her a gibbering, self-pitying wreck. If she shed any more tears, it would show in her face—while Lady Olivia’s fresh face would undoubtedly be strain-free.

She let her maid come in and help her prepare for bed, endured the pain of her hair being bound in the tight rags which kept her trademark ringlets in place, better than any curling irons, and then gratefully sank into bed. Only, sleep proved to be as elusive as a proposal and some time between midnight and dawn, she gave up and took herself back downstairs to warm some milk in the hope it would magically cure the restlessness and provide some respite from her worries.

Insomnia had always been an issue, even before she had taken to wearing the uncomfortable rags in bed. Clarissa had never been one of those people who could simply close her eyes and doze off. Her mind didn’t work that way. Usually, it was at its most active as her head hit the pillow, and once she had given every dilemma some serious thought she naturally drifted off. But of course, usually the only dilemmas she had were what gown to wear to the next soirée, what topics of conversation would be the most engaging and what was the best way to tell a story so that she could consign it to memory. Everything had to be consigned to memory because she could hardly write it down.

Literally.

Like so many other talents, writing extended prose was beyond her capabilities. Now her head was filled with a conundrum which wouldn’t be solved by a well-cut watered silk or a scandalous discussion about the latest society gossip. Now she had to work out a way to outshine Lady Olivia Spencer and capture her Duke for ever.

Then again, perhaps new gowns were the answer. Westbridge was a famous collector of beauty. It had been one of the biggest reasons she had chosen him as a potential husband. His ostentatious Mayfair mansion was crammed to the rafters with exotic objets d’art from around the globe. Ancient Egyptian sarcophagi sat beneath paintings from the Renaissance masters, Roman and Greek pottery adorned the finest Italian sideboards. Even the windows were draped in delicate French lace and the very best silk from the Orient. The mish-mash of styles had never been to Clarissa’s liking, but the ton lauded him for his magnificent taste. Even the Regent was envious of her Duke’s collection of art. She pretended enthusiasm with the same aplomb as she pretended to be so much better than she actually was. But Clarissa could be beautiful, if nothing else, and had ensured she was as beautiful as possible whenever she was in his presence in the hope he would add her to his collection. Fortunately, thus far he hadn’t expected her to be anything else, which was just as well. Because there really wasn’t anything else she could impress him with.

Unlike her sister, Clarissa’s talents were few and the least said about her academic achievements the better. Once upon a time she had desperately wanted to learn, only to discover that she didn’t possess the skills necessary to accomplish even that. She was the most unaccomplished Incomparable that ever graced the ballrooms of Mayfair, her only talents had always been the ability to charm the birds from the trees and to turn the heads of gentlemen.

She had a pleasing face and figure.

That was all.

A face and a figure which had been on the marriage mart for nearly four long years. If she could go back in time, she would have a stern talk with her younger self, remind her of her limits and tell her that setting her sights on a duke was pure folly. Dukes were fickle and few and far between. She should have married one of the earls or viscounts who had lined up to court her in her first two Seasons, then she would have the title which everyone believed an Incomparable deserved, albeit a lesser one. Those peers still had literate servants and paid for tutors. She’d be married, have her own home and probably a child or three already.

Then it wouldn’t matter if her figure turned to fat because she desperately wanted to eat and her perfect cheekbones disappeared under plumper, happy, married cheeks. Or that she couldn’t read any faster now than she did when she had been eight years old, despite her secret love of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels, and, although her handwriting was lovely, because Lord knew she had practised it often enough in the private confines of her bedchamber, she couldn’t spell to save her life. The letters were always correct, but the order they came in was nonsense. As mistress of her own house, she would issue all her instructions verbally, consign all important facts to her blissfully huge memory and pray that nobody—including that elusive yet-to-be husband—would be any the wiser to the shameful fact that she was on the cusp of being completely illiterate.

Agitated, she sloshed milk in a pan and set it to warm, then decided she was so depressed she deserved something sweet. Since her come-out she had denied herself cakes and biscuits, rarely ate anything covered in her beloved pastry and avoided any food bigger than the palm of her hand in case she gained unattractive weight, but frankly, after the week she’d had, only sugar would do. A quick rifle in the well-stocked pantry provided her with a whole round of crisp shortbread and a jar of strawberry jam. Exactly what she needed.

Despondent, she loaded the whole lot onto a tray and carried it into the drawing room. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa she unashamedly slathered a biscuit in a thick layer of jam, dipped the whole lot in her milk until it went deliciously soft and soggy, then shoved it into her mouth, sighing noisily in joy.

* * *

‘Oh, you poor thing! Shall we call someone else to help carry you?’ She had touched his arm in sympathy, an arm which he had tugged away swiftly as if he had been burned, which in a manner of speaking he had. He’d felt that calculated, flirtatious touch all the way down to his feet and at the roots of his hair. And once again, she had known the powerful effect she had on him. Doubtless it was the same effect she had over all men and to be yet another admirer in that long line made him feel insignificant in the extreme.

‘I can manage myself.’ Seb had let go of the footman and dragged his broken body up the next step unaided, only to be swamped with dizziness and forced to collapse back against the footman in case he fell. Joe had sprinted up next to him and grabbed his other arm.

‘You’re not strong enough yet to do this alone.’

‘There is no need to be so proud in front of me, Mr Leatham.’ That seductive voice again, secure in the knowledge that he had attempted to tackle the stairs alone because she was stood watching him. It was beyond galling.

Hours later it still galled. Those were the last words she’d said to him as she had watched him struggle the rest of the way up, denying him the dignity to fail so abominably at a simple task in private. He loathed being feeble and dependent on others; he had spent the first thirteen years of his life being an inconvenient dependent and had come to hate that state with a passion, but being feeble and so obviously dependent in front of her was beyond the pale.

The minx had run rings around him all day and had thoroughly enjoyed seeing him wrestle with embarrassment when his ferocious mask had slipped. He closed his eyes and for the umpteenth time relived some of the more cringeworthy moments of a day stuffed full of them. The way he had stuttered over the questions about a wife, a fiancée or anyone he particularly had his eye on had been awkward in the extreme, but nothing compared to the horrendous way he had blushed when she had noticed he had put a coat on for dinner and then told him he needn’t have bothered on her account, you poor, brave thing, so it was patently obvious she had known he’d donned the too-tight borrowed coat expressly for her.

His stupid ears had glowed for several minutes afterwards because she had made a point of watching them intently and asking repeatedly if he was hot. Which he was. With shame at his own legendary ineptitude around the fairer sex, while she was undoubtedly the fairest of them all, and for being such an obvious clod in her presence. Even while she was teasing him, his traitorous gaze kept wandering back to her irritatingly perfect face, finest of fine eyes and luscious, vexing mouth. His errant thoughts distinctly carnal, yet his mouth crippled by angry self-consciousness. He’d picked at his food like a bird, despite the fact he was famished, in case he further disgraced himself and dribbled more on his chin. By the end of the interminable meal, his conversation had deteriorated into growled one-word answers.

Yet the Gem still persisted with her questions even as they both sat reading before bedtime.

Mercilessly.

He might currently be a monosyllabic, coarse clod, but even clods had some pride. If he couldn’t be erudite, he could at least be fit enough to facilitate his own escape next time he collided with her and climb those damn stairs himself! He would exercise away the weakness in his body and find a way to conquer those stairs... Obviously in secret. Well away from the mocking eyes of the Incomparable or his well-meaning hosts. If Bella or Joe caught him exercising before they thought he was ready, they’d put a servant on watch and he’d be chained to the bed for sure. But if he wasn’t allowed to move, how the hell was he supposed to build his strength up? They didn’t know his limits and, by God, he had a long way to go yet before he reached them!

And thanks to her he was now starving as well as emasculated. Building his strength up required food, which was also down those blasted stairs. Imbued with the outraged strength of the self-righteous and clutching his painful abdomen, Seb gingerly sat up, then slowly twisted his legs from the mattress. He used the nightstand and rested the full weight of his body on his arms to stand up, then panted through the pain as it burned in his gut. He shuffled, rather than walked, to the door, then muttered a frustrated obscenity under his breath. It would take a month of Sundays to get fit at this arduous rate and he was damned if he would lose a month. He needed to push past the pain. Ignore the weakness. Be better than he was, which ironically was the sorry story of his life. Always trying to be better, yet never quite measuring up.

Remarkably, the discomfort lessened as he shuffled along the landing. Clearly moving was warming up those atrophied muscles. They still screamed, but not so much in agony any longer, more just a disgruntled shout. Maybe in a few more minutes, the shouting would become the occasional bellow? He simply had to push himself, just as he always had. Especially when things were at their worst. It never ceased to amaze him what he was truly capable of when he stretched himself to his limits, something he did with surprising regularity thanks to the obstacles life constantly put in his way and because of his stubborn refusal to let others believe he wasn’t good enough when he tried to prove to everyone he was. From birth, his betters had always looked down their noses at him, casting unsupported judgements based entirely on prejudice, and he prided himself on always proving them wrong. Seb was as good as anyone. He made sure of it. It was that tenacity that made him a fearless fighter, a logical problem solver and a damned good spy. Only he knew he didn’t believe it himself.

The staircase loomed, mocking him. The foul taste of humiliation at having to be supported by two men as they hauled his sorry carcass back up it in front of Lady Clarissa was something Seb never wanted to repeat. ‘Oh, you poor, brave thing.’ He bet she never referred to her fancy Duke as a thing. It was an insulting label he never wanted to hear again. Which meant he needed to get up and down those damn stairs himself to be able to safely disappear into the sanctuary of the same bedchamber he had thought a prison only this morning. Safe from Incomparables with a warped sense of humour and his own intense and mortifying reaction to them.

He stared at the steps with a heavy heart. They were steep, he knew, and the hard wood jarred his mashed guts with each painful step. There had to be a way of doing it without nearly dying from the effort. Rely on the strength in his arms, perhaps? Lean on the banister a certain way? Whatever it took, he would find a solution tonight and save himself from all potential further embarrassment.

Supporting himself on his good side, Seb gripped the sturdy banister for all he was worth and rested his upper body on it. Only then did he risk lowering one foot down. The movement did something to his torn innards which robbed him of the ability to breathe. It took a full ten seconds before he could lower the other foot, but that hurt less as everything inside lurched to its proper place. Encouraged, he managed another four stairs in much the same manner, then, fearful he was about to pass out, allowed himself five minutes’ rest slumped over the wood. After the next four stairs, he was dangerously light-headed and needed to lie down, but as there was now a greater distance upwards than down he decided his best option was to recover on the sofa. Down had to be easier than up. Up, in his current state, might well kill him.

The remaining stairs caused white-hot pain behind his eyes despite the fact he took them slower than the clock hands had moved over dinner and he found himself slumped against the bottom banister for an age before he could even think about moving again, heartily annoyed at himself for biting off far more than he could plainly chew and being goaded by his stubborn pride to do so because of her.

Attempting the stairs had been stupidity incarnate. Something a weakened man with a hole in his chest and a distinct lack of energy should never have attempted alone. Pride had been his sole motivator, just as it always had been when fate thought it was having the last laugh. But pride came before a fall. It was a blasted miracle he hadn’t fallen and undone all the good work the doctor had done. The implications didn’t bear thinking about. Ripped stitches. Internal bleeding. And all in the middle of the night when there was nobody around to save him. Seb deserved a damn good telling off for being so careless with his life and was likely due one unless he could find the strength to get himself back to his bed before his hosts found out what a blithering idiot he had been or Miss Perfect witnessed this fresh humiliation.

However, returning up Mount Staircase at this very moment was out of the question. The muscles in his arms were shaking from the effort of getting down, acid was roiling in his stomach and his head was all over the place. He needed to sit. Rest. Regroup. The door to the drawing room was ten feet away, yet that ten feet suddenly felt like ten miles now, longer if he hugged the wall rather than went as the crow flies. There seemed little chance he could get there without a wall propping him upright, so he didn’t bother trying.

Seb fell against it thankfully and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, allowing the cold plaster to cool the burning in his back until the dizziness and nausea subsided. From then on, he edged his way along the hallway, shuffling again as that was all he had left in him, until he finally arrived at his destination. In a few steps there was soft upholstery. Nothing else mattered.

Chapter Three

Clarissa yelped as the door slammed suddenly open in the silence, the soggy piece of shortbread falling from her fingers and smearing strawberry jam over the front of her nightgown. Not that Clarissa noticed. She was too busy gaping at the sight of the semi-naked Mr Leatham propped against the frame.

He was wearing breeches and a bandage.

Nothing else.

Her mouth went suddenly dry as her palms became moist. Good gracious, he was so...well built. The soft light from the single candle she had next to her gave his skin a golden hue, the shadows emphasising the powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders. Above and below the bandage wound tight around his middle was a dark dusting of hair over even more muscle. It stopped at the base of the strong neck her eyes appeared unable to move above.

Why would they when his body was so very...manly? All in all, it was possibly the most splendid sight Clarissa had ever witnessed.

‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Against her own body’s wishes, she tore her gaze away from his chest and only then saw the strained look on his face as he rested against the wood. He was very pale. Clearly struggling to stand. Instinctively she shot off the sofa and went to his aid.

‘Oh, Mr Leatham. You poor thing! Here—let me help you.’

‘I am not a thing, madam, and you would do well to remember it!’

Bravely ignoring his murderous expression, she wrapped one arm about his waist and regretted it instantly. His skin was deliciously warm to the touch. Soft velvet draped over steel. His back was as solid as the rest of him appeared, those strong muscles bunched under her fingers making them tingle in the most peculiar way. Forcing herself to concentrate, she wrapped her other arm carefully around his bare arm to help support him. ‘Lean towards me. Let’s get you sat down.’

He did as she asked and she felt his muscles quiver as she manoeuvred him carefully towards the sofa, supremely conscious of how large he was in close quarters. Her head barely reached his chin, the hand which had clamped about her wrist dwarfed hers. Its warmth seemed to brand her, searing her skin in a wholly pleasant but completely inappropriate way. Her heart quickened and her body yearned. That was the only way she could think to describe what was happening. She had the strange urge to run her hands all over his torso, just to discover exactly what all those impressive muscles felt like. Clearly eating too much sugar had scrambled her brain because she was not normally so...needy.

Attempting to ignore her unladylike reaction, Clarissa changed position to help him sit, her face now tantalising close to his neck. So close she could see where the pulse beat beneath his ear. Close enough to be aware of the glorious, masculine smell of him. Just soap and clean sheets, yet the heat of his body made those common fragrances heady in a way which caught her by surprise. His ragged breath feathered against her cheek and did strange, alluring things to parts of her body that had no place being excited. Not when the poor man was in agony and she was the only person around to help him.

‘Thank you.’ His eyes were kind again as he shyly looked away. ‘I didn’t mean to growl.’

She took a hasty step back, clasping her errant hands primly in front of her because they didn’t feel anything like hers any more and she didn’t quite know what to do with them. ‘Do you want me to fetch help?’ Part of her wanted to run away and put some well-needed distance between them. Another part of her scandalously wanted to keep him all to herself. Because he was almost naked and...well...she liked it...and was definitely attracted by the festival of intriguing raw maleness in front of her. And it wasn’t just his physique which intrigued her. The gruff, blushing, intuitive Mr Leatham was equally alluring. She had never been so confused about a man in her life. The usual signals were a contradiction. He was outwardly unfriendly and detached, but had kind, soulful eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. He seemed so disapproving of her, yet blushed when she flirted. Each time their eyes had met over dinner, her pulse had fluttered. What was that about, when she was supposed to be mourning the loss of her Duke? The fluttering now was making her jumpy. ‘I could wake Joe or Bella.’

He shook his head despite the pain etched on his expression. ‘No!’ He jabbed the air with his finger, ferocious once again. ‘Brandy! Lots of it!’

Clarissa scurried over to the decanter and sloshed as much over her quivering hand as she did in the glass. She pressed it into his, the touch playing yet more havoc with her bouncing nerve endings, holding it steady as he brought it to his mouth and then severing the contact as quickly as she could because her uncharacteristic reaction frightened her.

It wasn’t like her to be so flustered around a man. Being a flirt and charming them was probably the only thing she truly excelled at, yet here she was, more flustered than she had ever been in her life. Mr Leatham had managed to make her feel off kilter since the first moment she had laid eyes on him this morning. With his clothes on he was disconcerting. Without them he thoroughly disorientated her. In such close proximity to his breathtaking presence, Clarissa was uncomfortably lost for words.

Mute, she watched him gulp down the brandy, trying to ignore the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow or how his ridiculously broad shoulders rose and fell in time with his laboured breathing. He rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, the empty glass still clasped limply in his hand.

‘Would you like some more?’

He nodded without opening his eyes and held out the crystal balloon glass. ‘Don’t be stingy with it.’

Clarissa made sure no part of her hand touched his as she took it, refilled the glass and passed it back. For a moment, she seriously considered pouring herself some to steady her nerves, then decided against it because her wits were scrambled quite enough already. There was no telling what they would do under the influence of fortifying spirits. This time he sipped the brandy more slowly and she was relieved to see the colour begin to return to his face. Only when he had eventually drained the second glass did he open his eyes and look at her.

And, good gracious, did he look at her. His dark eyes slowly raked her body from the face down, then darkened as they laboriously climbed back up to meet hers.

Then he chuckled. The sound more intoxicating than any brandy.

‘You look like Medusa.’

The chuckle turned into a laugh which had him wincing as he held his abdomen.

‘And is that jam all over your front?’

One hand went to her head and then her bosom ineffectually. ‘You caught me by surprise. I dropped my biscuit!’ A true gentleman would never have mentioned it. Not outright at any rate. The fact that he had made her feel silly and exposed. ‘What do you think you are about, slamming through doors in the dead of night? It’s your fault I look a fright.’

He glanced to the stain on her front, then back to her head. ‘Then I apologise for frightening you—but that still doesn’t explain your hair. What the blazes have you done to it?’

Both hands now shielded the brightly coloured array of rags sticking up from her head, as if covering them now would erase the mortification she’d experienced at having him see them. Attempting haughty indifference, Clarissa returned her hands to her sides. ‘The rags set the curls.’

‘I knew they weren’t natural.’ More evidence of his lack of gentlemanly manners.

‘No ladies’ curls are natural. We all go to bed like this.’

‘Why?’

‘Because curls are becoming.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Although he plainly didn’t. Still smiling, he leant forward and flicked one of them. ‘They look painful. Do they hurt?’

Yes. ‘No. I barely notice them.’

‘But they are dragging your eyebrows up. You look permanently startled.’ His lips twitched again. ‘Do you wake up with your face aching?’

‘Oh, go ahead. Laugh. Have your fun. I doubt a mere farmer from Norfolk would understand the world I live in.’

She had meant to offend him, remind him his manners were sadly lacking and to put him back in his place, yet he didn’t appear the slightest bit offended. ‘You poor thing! I never realised how the other half suffered. I’m curious—without those...’ he gestured to her head ‘...monstrosities, what does your hair really look like?’

‘It is as straight as a poker. Just like my sister’s.’ Why had she confessed that?

‘Bella has lovely hair.’

‘Yes, of course she does, but...’ Having to justify her choice of hairstyle was ridiculous, so she clamped her mouth shut in case she said things she would rather he didn’t know. Bella didn’t have to be persistently beautiful every waking minute of the day. She had her man. And her enormous brain and copious talents.

‘But you are the Incomparable, therefore your hair has to curl. Your clothes have to be perfect. Every nuanced movement has to convey your sheer perfection. A diamond of the first water.’ He wafted his large hand in the air like a ballet dancer. Mocking her. Earlier he could barely string two words together and now suddenly he was capable of the most cruel and cutting insults. More cruel because they were completely accurate. The insufferable, insightful man.

‘Go back to planting your turnips!’ Clarissa stomped to the door.

‘It was turkeys actually, not turnips. But mostly geese, if you must know. Norfolk is famous for its poultry. Every year my grandfather would walk them to London wearing little leather boots to protect their feet. Always made me laugh as a child. Birds in boots.’ He said this conversationally, his deep voice slurring slightly. Clarissa turned against her better judgement and saw him slumped a little and smiling soppily. It was the brandy loosening his tongue, she realised. She had given him rather a lot of it. ‘Would you read to me? You have a lovely voice.’

‘No, I will not.’ The suggestion alone had brought out a cold sweat and panic. ‘It would be wholly improper.’

‘Can you at least pass me the shortbread before you leave? I daren’t move and I’m starving.’

Of their own accord, her feet moved to do his bidding. She snatched up what was left of the original biscuit and thrust it at him, only to have him snap it in half and pass a piece right back. ‘It was your midnight feast. I’d feel guilty if I ate it all. Does shortbread taste better with jam?’ His eyes flicked to the jar.

‘Everything tastes better with jam.’ To prove her point she dipped the edge of hers in the pot and then held it out for him to do the same. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded.

‘You are right. It does. But if you have such a sweet tooth, why did you refuse the trifle at dinner?’

‘I didn’t feel like trifle.’

‘Of course.’ He said it with a disbelieving note of sarcasm before taking another bite while those dark eyes scrutinised hers. ‘Is he worth it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your duke? Is he worth depriving yourself of desserts and trying to sleep with all that nonsense on your head?’

This man was too insightful. ‘He’s a duke.’

‘Dukes are merely men in finer waistcoats.’

Clarissa smiled then, she couldn’t help it. Like this, a little bit tipsy and suddenly vocal, Mr Leatham was quite charming. ‘And there speaks a man with little experience with the breed.’

‘I have lots of experience with dukes. My father was one.’

The last bite of biscuit paused midway to her lips. ‘You jest!’

‘Not at all. My father was a very illustrious duke.’ He waved his hand in the air loftily. ‘Very well connected at court—although I’m not supposed to talk about it or mention his name alongside mine. It’s a big secret. He thought himself most benevolent in quietly acknowledging me behind closed doors and providing for me financially. I received a gentleman’s education, I’ll have you know. I even went to Cambridge... Never had a seat at his table though. Appearances and all that.’

‘You are a...’ How did one put it politely?

‘By-blow? Nullius filius? Illegitimate? Born on the wrong side of the blanket? There are many gentle ways to say bastard, my lady—none of them alter the truth.’ He toasted her with his glass. ‘I have a half-brother who’s a duke, too. He’s a pompous man. Once called me a “thing”, just like you did. “Get that thing out of my house.” I remember it verbatim because those are the only words he’s ever said to me.’

Her cornflower eyes widened and Seb wondered what had possessed him to tell her, until he remembered he had consumed two huge glasses of brandy, in quick succession and on an empty stomach whilst physically as weak as a kitten. He’d never been much of a drinker and thanks to his injury hadn’t touched a drop in a month. Was it any wonder the strong spirit had gone straight to his head? ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to tell you that. I think those brandies have loosened my tongue. I’m not normally this chatty. Usually I’m shy around females. Painfully shy. I don’t suppose a fine lady like yourself would understand what that’s like, but aside from my mother I never really knew any women growing up... Why am I admitting that?’ It hadn’t just loosened his tongue, apparently it had also greased his jaws.

‘By the time I was grown I had no clue what women to go for. Being a by-blow you sort of sit on the fence between the two. I am neither a gentleman nor a peasant. I have nothing in common with the uneducated women and I have no experience of the merchant class, so never really understood where a man in my position hunts for women. And so many look down their nose at my situation, it’s rather put me off trying. Do you know, I can’t even flirt? Never dared try it.’ Largely because he didn’t want to suffer the inevitable reaction when they learned he was nothing better than a rich man’s bastard.

Her multicoloured head leant closer. ‘Are you telling me that you have never...?’ Her words trailed off as her perfect cheeks blushed.

‘No! Of course not. There have been a few women, but fortunately, every woman has seduced me. Thank goodness. Else I’d be hurtling towards thirty with no experience whatsoever.’ Seb started to laugh at his own ineptitude. ‘The first time, I was so green I didn’t realise what was going on until I found myself in her bedroom. Probably shouldn’t have told you that either, but I’m very tired.’ He could feel his limbs getting heavier with fatigue and suspected he would sleep like a baby for the rest of the night. Lord, he was exhausted. So weary he could barely see straight. All she had to do was ask and he probably would confess all his secrets.

Yet sat here with her in the candlelight, his tongue blessedly untied for once, admitting to his shameful lineage and his failings had been surprisingly easy. With her hair poking out of her head in rainbow tufts, jam stains on the front of her nightdress and one unnoticed sticky lump glued just above her lip, the Gem didn’t seem half as terrifying as she had before. There was something endearingly normal about her now and somehow he found this version far more attractive than he did the other incarnation. This woman was real. Vulnerable and much more accessible. Despite the pull of Morpheus, he wanted to spend more time with her. ‘Why do you want to marry a duke? Their privilege and upbringing make them very difficult men.’

She inhaled deeply, then sighed it out, perching herself on the edge of the chair directly opposite him while she considered whether or not to answer. Then she shrugged. ‘He’s a duke.’

‘Who clearly makes you miserable.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I might be hopeless with women, but I notice things, Gem. Every time his name came up in conversation today, your smile wasn’t genuine.’ At least the brandy had numbed the pain even though Seb had to concentrate to keep his eyes open.

‘Dukes are fickle things.’

‘That they are. But they are still men.’ And untrustworthy ones at that.

She swayed closer, within arm’s reach as she listened intently to his words. With staggering clarity considering his progressively inebriated state, and his increasingly heavy eyelids, he knew she had lost her confidence. Something which was as mind boggling as it was tragic. ‘Stop giving him power over you. Don’t let his elevated social standing and inflated sense of his own importance diminish what you are.’ Wise words he had tried, yet still failed, to live by. His hand stretched out and touched her cheek. It was soft. So soft. Absolute perfection. Her eyes lifted to his and they shared what he thought was a perfect moment. One he ruined with a huge, noisy yawn.

She immediately stood up, her lovely face etched with concern. ‘You do look very tired, Mr Leatham. Shall I fetch someone to help you back up to bed?’

He couldn’t face stairs. Not yet. And certainly not in front of her. ‘I think I’ll sleep here.’ In case she pushed the point, Seb stretched his long legs along the full length of the sofa and rested his weary head on the arm. It felt exactly like a cloud. ‘But I wouldn’t say no to a blanket.’ His eyes fluttered closed as he heard her moving around to get one, then enjoyed the sensation of her gently draping it over his body and tucking him in. ‘Are you sure you won’t read to me?’

‘Quite sure. Goodnight, Mr Leatham.’

‘Goodnight, Gem.’

As she stepped away he grabbed her hand and tugged her closer until she kneeled at his temporary bedside, needing to look at her one last time without the usual awkwardness which always crippled him and wanting to chase away the uncertainty she was trying so desperately to hide. Possessed with a mind of its own, his suddenly bold, drunk index finger traced the shape of her lips.

‘You are a beautiful woman, Gem. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are sharp and funny and hugely entertaining.’ He probably shouldn’t have confessed that truth either, knowing she’d likely use it against him in the morning when the Dutch courage had worn off and he was back to being shy again, but right now he didn’t care. ‘Any man, even a duke, would be lucky to have you. Don’t forget that. If he cannot see all the wonderful things you are, then he is also a fool and doesn’t deserve you.’

The sunny smile which blossomed on her face had a similar effect to the brandy, making him glad he was lying down. ‘Thank you, Mr Leatham.’ She stroked his whiskers with her palm, then stood and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. ‘I shall try to remember that.’

The last thing Seb heard was the quiet swish of her nightgown as she left the room. But when he woke to bright daylight and the bustling noise of household activity, the Gem, her ridiculous hair rags and the carriage she had come in were gone.

Chapter Four

London, six weeks later...

Lord Fennimore’s message had come in the middle of the night, summoning all the King’s Elite to his study immediately. Seb arrived at the same moment his friend Flint did and the pair of them were none the wiser as to why. Another man was sat alone next to Fennimore’s desk. Tall and blond, he introduced himself as Hadleigh, treated them both to a very firm handshake and explained he had been appointed the Crown Prosecutor for their particular case, although why they needed a lawyer when they had no new or living suspects at present was a mystery. The last had been ruthlessly murdered by the same man who had shot Seb before meeting his own maker. Since then, all the leads in the Boss’s extensive smuggling network had led to nothing but dead ends.

‘There has been a development.’ Never one for preamble, their superior stalked into the room and handed out three sheets of foolscap. ‘We have intercepted a message which gives us two new names. If they are to be believed, then it seems the Earl of Camborne apparently controls the operation in Cornwall and Devon, and Viscount Penhurst holds sway over the Sussex coastline. It is the first credible lead we have received since our recent obliteration of the Thames contingent and I am inclined to take it seriously. It makes sense they would divert his entire operation to the south. Whilst it’s a longer journey across the Channel, it’s also sparsely patrolled by the Excise Men. Certainly, the amounts of contraband do not appear to have diminished in the last two months and, as we’ve long suspected, the Boss has merely adjusted his supply chain to accommodate the loss of the estuary route. There is also mounting evidence that the majority of proceeds are still headed to Napoleon’s supporters. The message was signed Jessamine—a common enough French name—but makes mention of the Comte de St-Aubin-de-Scellon who conveniently happens to be one of the most sycophantic of Bonaparte’s cronies. Such a link is too coincidental not to be of grave cause for concern. It also suggests that St-Aubin is keen to raise the amount of barrels of brandy that are entering the country illegally, when the black market is already flooded with them. The amounts of money involved do not bear thinking about, but if he is successful they are certainly enough to raise an army.’

‘It’s a big risk taking the word of one intercepted message.’ Flint said exactly what Seb was thinking. A smuggler’s word could rarely be trusted, even in a coded note. Yet they also knew the Boss used members of the British aristocracy to sell on the cargoes. Seb’s gut instinct told him there was no smoke without fire and these two peers definitely needed investigating.

‘Perhaps—but early intelligence suggests the information is sound. Certainly, both Camborne and Penhurst have recently enjoyed a significant lift in their previously ailing fortunes, both are well connected and both have estates which abut the shoreline.’

‘I agree. There are too many coincidences for us to ignore it.’ And Seb was chomping at the bit to get back in the field now that he was as fit as a fiddle. ‘I can have my men tracking the beaches by tomorrow night.’ Already his mind was racing through the logistics. Two simultaneous missions left the King’s Elite spread very thin.

‘I know Camborne. Our fathers were friends,’ said Flint, all business.

‘Which is exactly why I’m sending you home to rusticate in Cornwall. Infiltrate his circle and learn the lay of the land.’ Fennimore turned abruptly to Seb. ‘And I want you to befriend Penhurst.’

Seb commanded the Invisibles. Highly skilled operatives who lived in the shadows and watched. He preferred to blend in and never stand out. Never, ever stand out. ‘I don’t befriend people.’

‘This time you do.’

‘With all due respect, sir, Warriner is back from his honeymoon in three weeks. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for him? We have always worked to our own strengths. You, yourself, selected us based on them and he’s the one with the talent for befriending.’ Jake Warriner oozed charm and enjoyed society. Basically, he was the exact opposite of Seb. ‘Meanwhile, I can lay the groundwork. Infiltrate his staff.’

‘I’m well aware of his areas of expertise, Leatham, but we don’t have three weeks. Penhurst is hosting a house party for his friends in less than a fortnight and I need you to be there. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. You can poke around the grounds and pay close attention to the man and his comings and goings. Your particular area of expertise.’

Lord Fennimore had clearly gone mad. ‘And how exactly am I supposed to befriend a total stranger and secure an invitation to his house in just two weeks?’ They all knew Seb had no standing in the ton. He’d always avoided it, for obvious reasons. He was a completely unknown entity and blissfully content to remain so. Stepping foot into the same elevated ranks as his father would make Seb uneasy. He hated the nagging doubts that went alongside not being born good enough and really didn’t need a reminder of his place in the world. He felt his hand automatically trace the scar on his cheek, the reward he had received the last time he’d openly set foot in Mayfair. Since that day, he had remained resolutely in the shadows where he belonged. ‘I know no one.’

‘Which makes you perfect for the mission. One thing we do know about the Boss is he likes his minions to recruit like-minded fellows into his network. He relies on that ready and waiting line of succession to slot in when the others fall by the wayside.’ A very polite way of saying those that displeased the as-yet-unidentified master of the dangerous organised smuggling ring, or had ceased to be useful to him, tended to wind up dead. ‘We’ve created an alias for you. Lord Sebastian Millcroft—originally from Lancashire because we all know few in society venture further north than is absolutely necessary and there won’t be enough time to check your credentials. But even if they have knowledge of the area, your family were minor gentry at most. You emigrated with them to the Antipodes as a babe, where they promptly died and left you to flounder by yourself. Only recently are you returned to English soil, your pockets stuffed with the huge fortune you have made on the other side of the globe from slightly dubious means, seeking interesting investment opportunities now that you are finally home.’ Fennimore pulled open the drawer in his desk and withdrew a pile of books. ‘Reading material to aid you in embellishing your new history.’

Seb stared at them with distaste. Not so much because of the reading, but because what Fennimore was proposing involved socialising. With peers. And ladies. Lots of ladies. He’d much rather be shot again. ‘But, sir...’

Fennimore held up his hand. ‘You make your first appearance in society tonight. As the honoured guest of the Earl of Upminster. He has been briefed on your mission and will give credence to your new identity. Penhurst will be in attendance and Upminster will introduce you. From there, it will be down to you. I trust you to do your duty and get into the man’s house!’

Seb looked to Flint for support, but his friend merely grinned. ‘I wish I could be there to see it.’ Because they both knew it would be carnage.

‘Hadleigh here has been drafted in so that we can act swiftly if and when the pair of you gather enough evidence for their arrests. We don’t want either to invoke Privilege of Peerage and avoid trial. As soon as we have proof of treason, Hadleigh will race through impeachment proceedings and have them stripped of their titles. Time is of the essence here, gentleman. If we work fast, we could make some serious inroads into the Boss’s supply lines. They have no idea we have intercepted the message. Within a few hours of receiving it, it arrived safely at its destination with the recipient none the wiser. As far as Penhurst and Camborne are concerned, it’s business as usual. For now, we watch and we wait. When we take them down, I want it to hurt the Boss significantly. I don’t want one packet or twenty. I want to obliterate his stronghold in the south just as we did the Thames. In the meantime, Hadleigh will assist me in scrutinising all aspects of their lives here in town and see if we can find out how they are moving the money while my two best men discover exactly how they make it.’

Seb didn’t share his superior’s faith in his abilities. ‘Perhaps there is another way I can get inside Penhurst’s house. Big estates always need workers. That is how I’ve always operated before.’ Playing the servant was much more Seb’s style. Working men, their aspirations and their mindset, he understood. Aristocrats, in the main, were a complete mystery.

‘Jobs for your Invisibles, Leatham. I need my most trusted field agents shadowing the ringleaders.’

‘But I don’t have anything to wear!’ Had that pathetic sentence just come out of his mouth? Judging by the bark of laughter from his supposed friend on his right, it had. As excuses went, even forlorn, last-hope excuses, Seb was prepared to acknowledge that one had been pretty dire. The King’s Elite had all been meticulously selected for their resourcefulness and adaptability. Two attributes he had always possessed in spades. As did his superior.

Lord Fennimore pinned him with an icy glare that would curdle milk. ‘Your attire has been taken care of. I assumed your measurements are much the same as they were last December when we had that footman’s uniform made for you and your fancy wardrobe should be winging its way to your new lodgings as we speak.’

‘New lodgings?’ Things were going from bad to worse. Seb liked his secluded little apartment in Cheapside, sandwiched between the rich and poor of London. It was the perfect place to blend in and to escape from his work. Like him, it fitted somewhere in between both classes so he didn’t have to pretend to be one or the other. Which he wasn’t and never would be. Unease began to churn away in his belly. With his background, surely Lord Fennimore wouldn’t...

‘Of course you have new lodgings! You’re supposed to be in possession of a huge fortune. A fortune to lure money-grabbing criminals to crawl out of the woodwork! You have full use of a town house in Grosvenor Square.’

Still Mayfair, but at least not Berkeley Square. That was a little too close to his past for comfort. Then the perfect excuse struck him. ‘And what if my dear brother sees me?’

‘Thetford? He hasn’t clapped eyes on you in what? Fifteen years?’ Almost to the day. Seb still remembered his mother being evicted from the hunting lodge on his father’s estate just hours after the man had been declared dead. His long and terrifying journey to Mayfair alone to plead for their home. He’d been a boy. Only thirteen. His childhood had come to a shuddering halt soon after, but he had learned a valuable lesson. A man of his status could never trust the aristocracy. ‘I doubt he’d know you if you spat in the fool’s eye. It’s hardly as if you were close. I hate to be callous, Leatham, but with men like that, it is most assuredly a case of out of sight, out of mind. To him you no longer exist. You ceased to exist the day he inherited his title. Besides, he left town yesterday and is not expected back until September. I pride myself in foreseeing every potential complication, Leatham. You know that. Many of the house staff have been replaced with some of your own men as I knew you’d want them close by. I’ve even made Gray your valet.’

‘Why can’t Gray be Lord Millcroft?’ As a real lord, albeit a disgraced and impoverished one, his second-in-command was much better qualified.’

‘Gray doesn’t have your years of experience or your level head. This job requires both. It is too important to palm off on a subordinate.’ Lord Fennimore wound the wire frames of his reading spectacles around his ears and picked up a piece of paper, his usual signal that the meeting was done. ‘Get yourself to Grosvenor Square and begin your preparations, Leatham. And shave off that damn beard. That’s an order.’

Sensing his discomfort, Flint patted him on the back. ‘This is no different from pretending to be a groom or a docker or a bare-knuckle fighter. You have always been a chameleon, Seb. Once you’re wearing the clothes, the character will come to you as it always does. Remember that time you posed as a French Chef de Bataillon? Your accent and manner were so flawless, your new regiment were too scared to question why their previous commanding officer had suddenly disappeared. You did that for three weeks undiscovered! If you can pose as a foreign officer undetected, then an English toff will be child’s play. Nobody expects you to be the life and soul. They expect you to be rich and heartless. Your customary silence will be interpreted as haughty disdain. Trust me, you’ll be admired for it. Simply stand straight, look down your nose at everyone and be free with your money.’

‘It couldn’t hurt to make the odd disparaging remark about taxation and the royal family either.’ This came from Hadleigh. ‘Those scoundrels will lap that up.’

Seb felt sick. Trapped and, for the first time in years, completely out of his depth.

‘Why are you all gossiping like old women? We have a job to do.’ Fennimore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Make haste, gentlemen! Your country needs you.’

* * *

The Duke of Westbridge’s name was pencilled in for the second waltz. The final dance of the evening. Clarissa had made sure of that the moment she had stepped into the ballroom, wearing another of her daring new gowns. Gowns which no fresh-faced debutante would dare wear. Age did have its advantages, and, imbued with her renewed sense of purpose, she was jolly well going to utilise it. The red was bold—purposefully so, because Lady Olivia wore pastels—and enviably stylish and form-fitting. The single red rose woven into her curls was a mischievous touch, because Lady Olivia staunchly wore the family tiara to every event, letting everyone know she came along with plenty of money. The deep-red petals popping against Clarissa’s blonde hair gave her an air of casual confidence, which was far more alluring than the call of money—and she thumbed her nose at her Duke and his now staunchly pink weekly bouquets.

Her lack of jewellery continued below her chin. Instead of hiding her skin under chunky necklaces, she now showed more of it. The plain gown was cut low at the front, lower still at the back, and the small capped sleeves hung tantalisingly off her shoulders. Every male head had turned as she had sailed through the door, including her Duke’s, yet she had still had to go to him to receive any sort of greeting. That slight grated, but she ignored it because he had wrapped her arm around his possessively and spent several minutes telling her about his week as they stood in full view next to the refreshment table. Even more pleasing, he insisted she accompany him while he went to talk to his cronies, leaving the furious Lady Olivia silently seething on the other side of the dance floor.

As the men excluded her to discuss gentlemanly things, Clarissa happily drifted to the edge of the group to stand with some of their ladies. Lady Penelope, Viscountess Penhurst, was her oldest and dearest friend. They had come out together, then become inseparable. That was before Penny had married and become far too busy with her new life in the country to engage overmuch with society. Clarissa saw her in town maybe two or three times a year now, but regularly visited her in Sussex. They always picked up exactly where they left off. As a married lady, Penny also acted as her friend’s chaperon whenever possible, something which gave Clarissa significantly more freedom than she enjoyed with her over-protective parents at home. Freedom she needed to secure her Duke.

‘I cannot believe Westbridge has still not offered for you,’ Penny said quietly behind her fan. ‘The way he has been dragging his feet and flirting with that Spencer chit makes my blood boil.’

It made Clarissa’s boil, too. Though the anger felt considerably better than the sadness which she had initially experienced at his indecisiveness. Where the sadness had made her run and hide, the anger spurred her to fight fire with fire. For six weeks, she had waged war against the simpering younger usurper who threatened to ruin her one chance at happiness, outcharming, outflirting and outshining the young woman at every event they attended.

The Duke of Westbridge couldn’t ignore her. Clarissa had made sure of that. She was always in his line of sight. Front and centre in his mind. ‘When I have him all to myself in a few weeks, I intend to change that.’ Out of the bonds of loyalty, Lady Olivia had not received an invitation to Penelope’s forthcoming house party, which gave Clarissa five days to force the issue before the Duke retired to the country for the summer. If the initial gentle hints did not work, she fully intended to issue him with an ultimatum. A stark one. If he failed to put a ring on her finger before he left, then Clarissa was determined to walk away and find another protector to hide her failings behind. An older gentleman or a less impressive younger peer who would be easily impressed by her connections. Unaccomplished Incomparables couldn’t be choosy. Any husband was better than none and once they were married he’d be stuck with her and duty-bound to keep her secrets.

Obviously, she sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Without the constant physical reminder of the younger Incomparable, she planned to reacquaint the Duke with all the reasons why he was first attracted to her—but enough was enough. A stand had to be made for the sake of her own sanity and for her tenuous reputation. If Westbridge didn’t want her, then she would have to swiftly find a suitable peer who did. By hook or by crook, she fully intended to be a married woman by Christmas. In the New Year she was twenty-four and the sad shelf of spinsterhood loomed on the horizon. Besides, all this additional effort was wearing her out and her poor nerves were so frayed by the constant and growing fear of her secret being discovered, she was coming to doubt they would ever return to normal.

‘About that...’ Penelope couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Penhurst has insisted she come. I had to send Lady Olivia an invitation this morning. I’ve already received her acceptance.’

The floor suddenly whipped from beneath her feet, all Clarissa could do was gape. ‘But you promised, Penny!’

‘I know I did and I feel awful, but Westbridge specifically asked my husband to include her and, as his friend, my husband refused to hear my arguments. You know Penhurst can be a beastly tyrant when riled.’

As Clarissa had seen the occasional bruises on her gentle friend’s arms which were testament to that fact, she took pity on her. She’d never liked Penhurst, not from the outset, and had cautioned her friend not to accept his proposal all those years ago. As her dear papa had always said, a man who has to resort to raising his hand to a woman was no man and Penny’s dictatorial viscount was everything Clarissa despised. A pompous, selfish, nasty bully. On more than one occasion, she had prayed for her friend’s early widowhood and would continue to do so until Penhurst was mouldering in the ground. ‘It doesn’t matter, Penny.’ But it did. She would have to rethink all her plans now. ‘I know you tried your best and it’s nothing catastrophic that cannot be fixed.’ The simpering Lady Olivia might miraculously find her own gentleman in the interim and leave Clarissa’s in peace.

‘I will still help you.’ Her loyal friend threaded one arm tightly through hers. ‘I will occupy all Lady Olivia’s time and keep her from underfoot. Between the pair of us, we will make Westbridge see sense.’ Penny shot daggers at the pouting Olivia. ‘Very soon you will be married to the man of your dreams.’

‘Penelope!’ At the sound of her husband’s voice, Penny snapped to attention and turned into the cowering wife again.

‘Yes, my dear?’ Had an endearment ever sounded so pained?

‘Come. I have someone I wish you to meet.’ They turned to see the gentlemen part like the Dead Sea, revealing the Earl of Upminster and a very familiar face. Gone was the beard and the pale complexion. A scar she had not seen before marred his cheek, but bizarrely the imperfection gave him an air of the dangerous and intrepid in this room full of cosseted peers. In his expertly tailored coat and impeccable sage-silk waistcoat, which perfectly set off his broad shoulders and strong arms, Mr Leatham looked positively splendid. Clarissa smiled warmly only to see his face blank and cold. His eyes though, issued a stark, urgent message she didn’t quite understand.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Lord Millcroft.’

‘Lord Millcroft?’

Instantly he surged forward and took her hand, ignoring the other ladies and the correct protocol. He squeezed it tightly and stared imploringly into her eyes as he kissed the back of her glove. The thin layer of fabric made no difference because she still felt his touch everywhere just as she had the last time. As before, a simple touch was positively thrilling—but then she had seen him wearing only his breeches and that splendid sight had rather clouded her judgement.

‘Lord Sebastian Millcroft. Lately of the Antipodes. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss...?’

Chapter Five

For the last seven hours, and after giving himself a very stern talking to, Seb had been centring himself. It was a process he often did when assuming the persona of someone else and one which was usually successful. As someone else, he could hide behind a veneer. Within his mind he constructed the character, the way they thought, spoke, their particular idiosyncrasies. The layers which created a believable cover and separated the shy by-blow from Norfolk from the mission at hand.

Lord Millcroft was aloof, arrogant and judgemental. He was a man’s man, preferring to talk business or discuss the brash and bawdy things gentlemen did when gathered together behind closed doors. Millcroft was a man who preferred to play cards or drink or socialise with other men in the sanctuary of White’s or Brooks’s. Seb had no problem with any of those things because they also served to disguise his awkward shyness around the fairer sex. A shyness which never plagued him around men, where his fierce pride came to the fore. In his head, no matter who they were, he strove to be their equal even if he didn’t always feel it. Therefore, he would work to that strength and try to ignore the swathes of ladies at the same events. Lord Millcroft wasn’t on the hunt for a wife, he was an eager investor on the lookout for ways to swell his fortunes, so it stood to reason he would have no interest in the ladies whatsoever.

It was a canny plan and would cover his shyness perfectly. By the time his preparations were done, he was quietly confident he could pull this charade off just as he had countless others beforehand and had stridden into the Earl of Upminster’s ballroom radiating haughty indifference with the very best of them.

He’d had a little moment when he had first encountered the crowd. It was not the crush which bothered him, more the unpalatable fact that this was a social occasion, filled with those who had been born to consider themselves better than most and his sort especially, and that Seb would actually have to take some part in the socialising rather than merely watch it from a distance. After he had given himself another stern talking to and noticed that many of the gentlemen paid scant attention to the ladies anyway, the flapping eagles in his stomach became sparrows.

Upminster introduced him to several people as they made slow progress around the room and Seb responded in character. He engaged with the men and simply nodded politely to the ladies. The convoluted preamble served to further calm his nerves, to the extent that the sparrows were mere butterflies by the time he met Viscount Penhurst and his circle of friends. He greeted them as equals, bowing only slightly lower to the Duke in the party on principle, and happily engaged in the sort of male-orientated conversation he had planned meticulously for.

Icy calm.

Calculated.

Completely in control.

Then he’d spied her next to Penhurst’s wife and those lofty plans flew out of the window. Instead of avoiding the women altogether, he’d had to think on his feet and fast. Rather than treating Gem with the haughty indifference he had practised in front of the mirror, he had rushed at her like a man recently speared deep by Cupid’s arrow. He’d grabbed her hand, gazed up at her beseechingly and, to all intents and purposes, declared to the entire ballroom he was suddenly, openly smitten and eager to get better acquainted with a woman he had technically only laid eyes on a few seconds before.

Besotted and desperate to woo! Two states which were as far away from where Seb felt comfortable as it was humanly possible to be. He was also fearful of her potential reaction to his blatant lie and furious at himself and his superior for this potentially calamitous oversight. Fennimore should never have put him in this position! A stable, a garden, the kitchens, even the sewers were better places for his covert talents and dubious lineage. In this kaleidoscope of genteel poppycock he was seriously out of his depth, especially if he now had to play the role of ardent suitor.

‘Lady Clarissa Beaumont.’ She inclined her head graciously. ‘I am intrigued to meet you, my lord. And so fresh from the Antipodes, too. I look forward to hearing all about it. They sound like such a fascinating place...when the furthest I have been is Norfolk.’

As barbs went, hers were perfect. Much like her. Tonight she was stunning. So stunning the flapping eagles returned with a vengeance and pecked at his heart. She stepped back and Seb was aware of her eyes on him as he was introduced to Penhurst’s wife. At least it appeared she had given him a grace period before she turned him over to the wolves, yet the very real possibility only served to make his pulse race faster than it already had been before he had set eyes on her. The hours he’d spent rehearsing had been wiped the second he had and he’d very nearly broken character and fled. Already the tips of his ears felt warm; his tongue threatened to fail at any moment and he had no idea now how the mysterious Lord Millcroft would continue to behave because he didn’t know this character at all. Seb would have to make it up as he went along.

Not his strong suit as the bullet hole could attest.

This was a complication neither he nor the wily Fennimore had foreseen. The rest of society might well have never seen him, his dreadful brother might not recognise him, but the Gem had tormented his thoughts ever since he’d met her, teased him and seen him half-naked, drunk and slurring just a few short weeks before. One wrong word and his mission was over before it had started; worse, it might encourage Penhurst and Camborne to cover their tracks and warn the Boss that the King’s Elite were on his tail. The combination of inwardly dying from mortification, the purely male and visceral reaction at seeing her again and the very real fear he had just seriously jeopardised the whole investigation in the process caused him actual physical pain. His damn heart was clattering so fast it was jarring his recently healed bullet hole and the acid churning in his stomach was so potent it would dissolve iron nails.

He needed to get her alone. Lord only knew what he would tell her, but somehow he would ensure her silence.

He had to.

‘Did I mention that Millcroft here is on the hunt for suitable investment opportunities?’ Upminster was playing his part perfectly and it nudged Seb to do the same. For the time being he was impotent to do anything else.

‘He is?’ Penhurst replied with an air of boredom. ‘What types of investment?’

‘Whichever yields the most coin in the shortest time, my lord.’ Seb offered the man a knowing smile. ‘I am a man with little patience for the long term.’

Penhurst’s thin lip curled. ‘A speculator, then?’

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